


Kill Your Darlings

by cherrybarnes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Kill Your Darlings (2013), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1940s, 40s Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, F/M, Inspired by Kill Your Darlings (2013), Inspired by Poetry, Kill Your Darlings (2013) References, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Writer Bucky Barnes, Writer Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-11 02:54:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16467278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrybarnes/pseuds/cherrybarnes
Summary: "some things, once you've loved them, become yours forever. and if you try to let them go, they only circle back and return to you. they become part of who you are or they destroy you."steve rogers didn't know what he was expecting when he was accepted into columbia university. with the war going on, he was already accustomed to the tension in the air. he predicted quarrels, men being called to fight, and dames leaving themselves available (in secret, of course.) what he wasn't expecting was to meet bucky barnes, a rambunctious poet with a wicked gleam in his eye and knack for trouble.





	1. pain feeds the pen

steve watches with a nervous gleam as his mother's eyes trail over the paper in front of her, absentmindedly mouthing the words as she read along. he'd been awaiting this moment for years. steve deserves this. he knows he does, he's past modesty. the boy observes her reactions as she takes in his words, feeling the nerves bubble in the pit of his stomach. her whole face lights up.

“...you got in?”

the excitement in her voice was evident; her tone was enough to ease his anxiety and cause a smile to spread over his face. steve doesn't know what reaction he was bracing himself for. it was a silly thought. he figures she’d long for her son in her sickness, or for the house to not feel so empty after his father left.

he's wrong, though. apparently.

“are you going to give your mother a hug or stand there looking pretty?" she weakly pulls him into her hold. "columbia, huh? where’d you get that idea from?” steve’s grin only widens at her inquiry. she's a writer after all. better than him and better than his father - though that comes without a surprise. his father never was great with finishing things he started.

sarah rogers is who steve has to thank for his talent and passion for writing. she had introduced steve to her passion when he was ten. the rest is history.

when he was five, she'd read him bedtime stories before bed every day. sure, she started out simple, like mothers usually do. dr seuss was an easy introduction. she then moved to faulkner, jrr tolkien, and eventually poe - all by the time he was eight. as time progressed, he read not only at night but during the mornings and afternoons. he read in the parks, hanging upside down from trees, in meadows, in the schoolyard. he was rarely seen without a book in his hand.

when he was eleven, he actually picked up a pen for himself. the two of them sat in his mother's office, as they often had after steve's father left. "pain feeds the pen," sarah would tell steve whenever he pointed out her sudden habit of writing in her office until early hours of the morning.

she's a highly respected poet. unfortunately, though, she doesn't get the recognition she deserves. she's forced to write under a pseudonym in order for people to take her writing seriously. steve curses the world for that every day.

the blonde woman pulls away from the frail boy, grabbing his shoulder and looking him in the eye.

"i'm so proud of you. i knew you'd be able to do it! i will support you until the end of the world. do you hear me?" sarah smiles at her son, a feeling of warmth in her stomach. a bittersweet feeling. she knows she doesn't have to fret over her boy surviving on his own after she inevitably dies.

"thank you, ma."

"here marks a new chapter of your life, sunshine. treat it with kindness."

\-----

steve sighs as he drops his bag onto his bed. he can't help but applaud the neatness of his new shared room. the beds are well-kept and his mystery roommate's side of the room is tidy. shoes are in a row and his clothes are hanging up in the open closet. steve hums to himself as he allows his eyes to take in sight of the room. the stranger is a reader. he has a bookshelf near the door filled to the brim with books: old and new, sellouts and classics, thick and thin. he has it all. steve feels an itch in his fingertips to run his hands along some of the bindings.

he takes a few tentative steps towards the huge bookshelf that stood taller than him. he gawks at how impressive the collection is. he hopes his roommate will be kind enough to let him borrow a few books some time. steve's mind flashes to the embarrassing size of his own book assortment - a meekly twelve books. a few favorites he had accumulated over the years. he chews on his bottom lip as he considers his next move. _'having a quick look won't hurt anyone. hopefully, the dude doesn't mind. they're just books...'_

after ducking his head out of his door to make sure the coast is clear, he returns to the bookshelf to examine further. he recognizes some of them, of course, from books sarah would pick him up before she fell ill. he picks up an older looking book and turns it in his hand. his eyes draws into the title. steve presses his lips together with a soft grimace. he knows this book. he had read this book after he fell in love for the first time.

her name was antonia.

he opened to a random page and began to read:

**“I was something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins, and I did not want to be anything more. I was entirely happy. Perhaps we feel like that when we die and become a part of something entire, whether it is sun and air, or goodness and knowledge. At any rate, that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great. When it comes to one, it comes as naturally as sleep...."**

the pale boy's eyes glass over as he recalls a vivid memory. he can almost see it playing behind his eyelids.

he met this certain bright-eyed girl the movie theater down the road from his house. he was only sixteen at the time, blundering and graceless as ever, yet he never gave up on his intention to have antonia return his feelings for her. you see, he was drawn to her specifically because she kept him in order, unlike most girls around him. he needed direction in his life seeing as his mother recently fell ill. steve would never tell sarah, but it had seemed as though the writing wasn't enough of an outlet around that time. antonia helped. on this reckoning, he stuck to things he was good at. reading. he remembers coming across a paragraph that made her particularly blush.

_the two of them occupied the field, the boy's head in her lap as he read aloud to her._

_the golden sunlight hit his ocean eyes and made his skin appear as if it was glowing. his face was a rosy tint from the warmth of the sun above. his golden hair was soft to the touch and unstyled, just begging antonia to run her hands through it. she found herself falling more and more for the boy every day._

**_“Antonia had always been one to leave images in the mind that did not fade - that grew stronger with time. In my memory, there was a succession of such pictures, fixed there like the old woodcuts of one's first primer..."_ **

_she felt her heart flutter at the words, the corners of her mouths turning upwards. her fingertips softly ran through over the delicate skin, over his tinted cheeks and slightly chapped lips. steve felt himself smile into the words he spoke. her wide brown eyes stared down at him, her curly hair falling down around her face. her tanned skin looked radiant in contrast to steve's, like a painting._

**_"She lent herself to immemorial human attitudes which we recognize by instinct as universal and true..."_ **

_antonia was confident she'd never find anyone with a soul as radiant and alluring as steve's. she couldn't stop herself from wanting to be closer to him. the brunette leaned her forehead against his, gazing into his eyes. the boy stopped reading as the girl's lips ghosted over his own. steve had the sudden urge to pinch himself._

_"you stopped.." she breathed out softly against his lips. steve shut his eyes and took a few deep breaths to tranquilize his racing heartbeat before he could continue. he'd only heard about situations like these in stories. when did he get so lucky?_

**_"She was a battered woman now, not a lovely girl; but she still had that something which fires the imagination, could still stop one's breath for a moment by a look or gesture..."_ **

_steve trailed off as he studied the young girl above him, mesmerized by her beauty. his patience was wearing thin; he was a young boy after all. he stretched an arm out to rest his hand softly on the back of her neck before he guided her down to meet his lips; it was his first kiss. he remembers it as being breathtaking. she fell down atop him, giggling as her hair got in the way of their kiss. he eventually pulled away from her, holding her in his embrace. they lingered like that for a while, in each other's embrace with their lips being unable to separate for longer than five seconds. steve pressed a final kiss gingerly to atonia's lips murmuring out,_

**_"All the strong things of her heart came out in her body, that had been so tireless in serving generous emotions."_ **

"well, i'm glad to see you're making yourself at home,"

steve lets out a shrill yelp, startled back into reality. he quickly drops the book back into place on the bookshelf. like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he slowly turns around to face his new roommate with a red face. "i- sorry. i saw your collection and got ahead of myself. that's so rude of me oh my gosh you probably think i- i'm like a boundary crosser or something. i really am so sor-"

"if you apologize one more time, i may pass out," the tall man standing against the door frame cuts him off with a grin. he steps away from the door frame, straightening out his back. "i'm sam. sam wilson," he holds his hand out for steve to shake. the smaller boy notices the way sam studies him before he raises an eyebrow expectantly.

steve gathers himself quickly, clearing his throat. "steve rogers," he speaks clearly as he inched forward to shake his hand.

sam looks over steve's shoulder, glancing at the book which now lay abandoned on his shelf. " My Ántonia, huh? that's a classic. one of my favorites, actually. 'Some memories are realities and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again,' "

the shorter of the two shifts uncomfortably reminded once again of someone who is no longer in his life.

"you're a fan of literature, i see. you're a writer, i presume?"

"aren't we all? i used to be in the navy but i was released..." sam takes a long look at steve, contemplating what to say next. "but i came back after a... complicated period of my life. it's good to be back..."

steve studies sam and decides not to question him about his previous life in the navy. at least, not right now. he was just caught snooping through his books already, after all. steve walks back to his side of the room and takes a seat at his desk. there, he notices a small window beside where he plans to write a good amount of work. a boy shrank by the distance between him and the window from the third floor, seems to be having a dispute with an older man trailing behind him. he can't help but be drawn to the brunet. he's tall, even from steve's view, and tanned. even though the pale boy can't note the finer details, he's immediately attracted to the way the individual carries himself.

"where are you from, steve?" sam asks, plopping down on his bed and stretching himself out.

the shorter boy clears his throat, letting his lingering gaze snap back to the man looking at him expectantly. "new jersey. newmark, actually. where are you from?"

"well, my family and i used to live in harlem. after i shipped off to the navy, they dispersed. new beginnings and all that, y'know? now it's just me and columbia... and my girlfriend, of course. her name is iliyse. you'll have to meet her sometime."

steve can't stop his eyes from wandering back to the window to catch another glimpse of the mystery guy but alas he was gone. steve sighed softly and ignored the odd feeling of disappointment burning in the low of his belly. "yeah i do..." steve said absentmindedly.

sensing this, sam proposed: "me and a few pals of mine are gonna head over to a bar downtown if you wanna join? get your name out there and all."

steve weighed his options for a minute. sam appeared nice enough. he was clearly forgiving seeing as he had just caught steve sticking his nose where it doesn't belong and now he's inviting the dude out for drinks. it wouldn't be a bad idea to get a better look at the campus and the city around them but then again...

"no, thank you. i should probably get some writing done and try for a good night's rest. i have class early in the morning."

sam gives him one last look, almost debating arguing with him but he instead shrugs. jerking his head in the direction of the door, he replies: "alright well if you change your mind, we'll be at the white horse tavern," before turning on his heel and closing the door behind him.

steve sighs, sparing one last look at the setting sun through the window before beginning to unpack.


	2. life is only interesting if life is wide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they meet.

"rhyme, meter, conceit. without this balance, a poem becomes slack, sloppy. an untucked shirt."

steve rubs the back of his hand with the sleeve of his slightly too large red jacket. he wills himself to stifle his yawn, not wanting to disrupt the class for the fifth time this period. unfortunately for him, he fails, and gains the attention of his professor. 

"i'm sorry, mr rogers, is my lecture not interesting enough for you?" the man's eyes zero in on the new student.

the blond boy gives a half shrug, not expecting the sudden unwanted attention at eight in the morning. "it's no offense to you but... professor erksine, how do you explain whitman?" it seemed as though the students around him stopped breathing, taking in the scene in front of them. no one corrects professor erksine. he wasn't exactly the friendly type.

the old man raises an eyebrow, weighing steve's words. "say more," he waves his hand. "two more sentences." 

the young poet's eyebrows draw together, absentmindedly tapping his pen against his notebook. he thinks for a short second, construction his thoughts quietly. "he hated rhyme and meter. the whole point was an untucked shirt." the professor feels the side of his mouth twitch, turning away before his students see it. he gets a student like steven every year.

"what's your name?" erksine's interest is piqued at the curious boy.

"steven rogers, sir." steve, already knowing what question will follow this statement up, lets out a quiet sigh to himself.

"rogers? does your father happen to be the poet simon rogers?"  

steve grimaced internally at the question.  _no,_ it was most certainly not his untalented father. however, he couldn't just say the truth. his mother's days as a poet would be over before steve had a chance to phone her and explain what happened. that was the entire point of having a pseudonym in the first place, he has to remind himself. 

"yes, sir."

"he writes rhyming, metered verse. why do you think he chose that form?" erksine, figuring this will put the boy in his place, clasps his hands behind his back in triumph.

steve hates the attention he feels on him. it makes him feel even smaller than he already is. nonetheless he doesn't miss a beat. "because it's easier."

the class erupts into muffled laughter and murmurs before erksine hushes them. "this university exists because of tradition and form. would you rather this building be built by engineers or whitman and his boys at play?" steve doesn't have a witty comeback this time. the professor forged a fake, overly kind smile on his face.

erksine turns on his heel, before writing on the board. "there can be no creation before imitation."

steve sighs, finally feeling the class' observation turn from him back to erksine and his lesson. he begins to take notes along with the other students, albeit reluctantly. he's unaware, however, of the one boy who keeps his attention on the small blond. 

-

steve leans his head against his hand, working tirelessly on his work. sam is gets dressed up behind him somewhere, awkwardly shimmying into his trousers to the tune of the song playing over the phonograph. "you sure you don't wanna come out and join us, rogers? if i didn't have a dame, i'd be out there chasing the skirts myself! you have the perfect opportunity! most guys our age are leaving for the trenches tonight!" 

steve blew out his cheeks, pretending to ponder the idea. "mmm... no. thank you! but no." 

sam rolls his eyes, feigning anger and clips his suspenders before turning off the phonograph. "suit yourself, dickhead. don't wait up for me!" he exclaims before slamming the door behind him. 

steve throws himself on his bed, leaning back with a sigh. he closes his eyes for a second, enjoying the feeling of the tension in his back dissipating. his eyebrows knit together as he hears a familiar song dancing in the air. he spares a glance at sam's phonograph, checking to see if his roommate accidentally kept it on low. when he finds the player completely off, yet still makes out a tune in the distance, he furrows his eyebrows and strains his ears for the source of the sound.

curiosity killed the cat, he supposes, and he gets out of bed. the boy walks towards the shut door, peaking his head out. empty hallway. he follows the melodious notes as they carry him down the hallway. he finds himself in front of a door already open, much to his surprise.

even more surprising? he recognizes the boy. he'd seen him twice. once on his first day on campus, arguing outside of his window and again in the library previously that day.

 _steve watches with bright eyes as he takes in the sights around him. the tour guide is a few feet ahead of him, talking about rules and formalities of the library. something about the library being a church and the texts being sacraments... steve isn't listening. he instead focuses his attention on something they call "the wonders of literary history". steve gawks at the glass containment in front of him, holding books from varieties of the most influential poets. that's shakespeare's_ handwriting.  _"these are among columbia's most prized possessions."_

_a sudden commotion grabs his attention. a boy, the boy he saw yesterday through his window, leaps onto a library desk, a book in his hand. he's even more beautiful in person, steve comes to realize, with tan skin and soft brown hair. that most alluring part, though, was the devilish gleam he held in his eyes. "let's hear a bit, shall we?" the beautiful boy waves the book around. he begins to recite:_

_"on a sunday afternoon, when the shutters are down and the proletariat possesses the street..."_   _steve watches the scene unfold with wide, interested eyes as a wave of confusion passes over the tour guides face. he wonders, in passing, if this is something he should get used to. he wouldn't mind, he supposes, if the distractions were always this breathtaking._

 _"...there are certain thoroughfares which remind one of nothing less..."_ _steve feels his eyes widen comically as the mysterious boy gets on his knees, thrusting a lamp between his legs. he feels the people around him shift. some are confused, some are annoyed, and most are amused._

_"...than a big cancerous **cock**."_

_a librarian walks over, hands on her hips and a pissed off expression on her face. "what exactly do you think you're doing?!"_

_the brown eyed boy feigned sheepishness, shrugging. he holds the book up and gives it a little shake to emphasize. "henry miller."_

_the older lady turned red in her ears in frustration. clearly they aren't strangers. "that book is restricted. get down this instant!"_

_"that's exactly why i committed it to memory," he bites back, a smile beaming from his lips._  

_"SECURITY!" the poor lady looks about ready to burst at the seams in rage._

_the student leaps down, in front of steve. "alert the press! tell them james barnes is INNOCENT!" the boy - james - flees the scene, rushing away from the guards._

_"that was...highly unusual. it's usually very quiet here in campus..." the tour guide's voice fades away as steve's eyes follow after the captivating boy._

"brahms?" steve asks, referring to the classical music he'd heard antonia play time and time before. 

james looks up, clearly not expecting company. a cigarette hangs loosely from his lips, his mouth twisting into a smirk. "finally. an oasis in this wasteland,"

the taller boy stands from his place on the bed, stalking towards steve slowly as he takes in the sight of him. steve tries to hide his nerves as the unknown boy walks seemingly towards him before changing course last minute, strolling behind him. steve takes in sight of the room in front of him. a phonograph plays music that fills the air, a mattress lays on the floor. books made out furniture, candles sitting atop a makeshift table. 'that cannot be safe' he reflects.

"liberation?" the brown haired boy, still smirking, grabs a bottle of wine hidden between heaps of books. 

"you drink in your room?"

james hums, studying the label of the wine. "how's a terrible glass of chianti sound?" he begins to pour alcohol into two small glasses, before offering one to steve. the latter studies the glass for a moment, shaking his head slightly. breaking the rules, especially on his second day, wasn't high on his list of things he wants to do.

"i don't drink."

the taller of the two raises an eyebrow. "freshman?"

"yes."

james hands him the glass. "perfect. i love first times. i want my whole life to be composed of them. life is only interesting if life is _wide_."

he lifts his glass up in a toast. "to walt whitman," james inherits one of those smirks he always seems to be wearing. "you dirty bastard."

steve looks down into his glass, only sightly confused, before he watches as james takes his drink back in one gulp. 

"do you read yeats?" james looks at steve with that damn twinkle in his eye. he walks back to his bed, picking up a book from his side table and tossing it to steve. he nearly drops his gross wine onto the poor carpet trying to catch the book one handed. luckily, he catches the worn down book in his right hand, flipping it over in his hand.  _a vision._

 _"'a vision'_? i've never heard of it." 

"it's completely brilliant and impossible. he says life is round: we're stuck on this wheel. living. and dying," steve flips through the book, tracing his fingertips over a symbol on the page. "an endless circle. until. someone breaks it...

"you came in here, you rupture the pattern." james talks animatedly, motioning an explosion with his hands. "bang! the whole world...

"gets wider." the two boys say in unison.

james tilts his head, amazed. "how did you...?" 

"consonance. reiteration of themes," steve shrugs. his mother had taught him that a few years back when she still had the energy to teach him lessons. 

james breaks into a boyish grin. "you a writer? 'cause i've got a job for a writer." steve looks into james' sparkling eyes as the taller boy inches near.

steve becomes bashful, huffing out a small laugh. "no. i'm not,"

"well you're not anything yet." james mumbles. they're close now, barely an inch between the two. steve can feel his breath on his lips.

james pulls away, lighting up another cigarette. he brings it up to his mouth, inhales, and blows it away from the pale boy's face - thank god. steve can't help but keeps his eyes trained on the smoke that fades up to the ceiling. james grabs the book from steve's hands. steve's not sure if james' hands actually linger, or if he's imagining it. 

"let's go on an adventure, stevie. the night is still young after all." 

and so, they do.

**Author's Note:**

> hello! im mandi! this story is going to be based on the film "Kill Your Darlings" so if you've seen this movie (and you should if you haven't) then you know this isn't going to be all sunshine and rainbows. that being said, i am also going to be pulling information from the "beats'" lives and incorporating them into this book as well. please brace yourself for that. also, note that this book is going to be with prewar stucky! since its taking place in the 40s, please expect time normative sexism, homophobia, racism, etc. i hope you enjoy the story!


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